A few hours earlier, I was in the old storage shed, sandpaper in hand, feeling like some dumb kid with a crush. My heart was hammering harder than it did during that skirmish on the ridge last winter.
The bench sat there on the workbench—the one my dad made for Lilian Hart years ago. Freshly sanded, good as new. You could still make out the carvings, simple clean lines he’d done himself. Over the past two nights, I’d added our parents’ names side by side under the original words, then etched one more line underneath—for Sienna.
For the ones who believed the walls could come down.
May their daughters and sons finish what they started.
Sawdust clung to my palms. I wiped them on my jeans and stared at the damn thing like it might disappear if I blinked too hard.
Mom leaned in the doorway
